Swing, Swung

Something I was thinking about the other day, while casting about desperately for ideas, was the swings we used to have at grade school. I believe I came up with the idea while my leg was swinging around at my computer desk. In any event, I recalled the fantasies that reigned while we were on the swings. They often were not swings but some manner of fighter jets. Somehow we were enacting dogfights between ourselves (in the guise of Indiana Jones) and the Nazis, whose name a boyhood friend misspelled as "Not-Sees".

There was always the push to go higher on the swing. The mythical act of going beyond the top of the swingset and coming back around was ever on our minds, but I don't think anyone even dared to approach it. Something that you could do was to twist the seat of the swing so that it sat higher above the ground, and in that way you could get higher up and feel a certain illicit thrill. Really, I don't think anyone was ever hurt, but we were probably better off to have had the risk.


Back at the house where I lived through much of grade school, we had a swing on the porch. It was not designed for the wild activities that we engaged in at school. Rather, it was a gentle swing meant to be rested in while one contemplatively sipped lemonade and looked out on the residential street on which the house stood. It made a peculiar noise when one swung in it aggressively, and I often felt nauseated by it.

I have not swung in a swing in some years, as you would guess. It would look pretty bad if I did at my age. The last time I can think of having done so was in Florida while visiting family. This must have been something like ten years ago, and even then we were all too old to be doing it. There was a subversive pleasure in it that could conceivably return only when I am a father. I expect it will be a while.